I want to write again to say how things are as if that makes them so– I want to find you newly formed and naked like some kind of Dr. Frankenstein, examining the property of turning flesh I bled from out old wounds and kissed you ‘til your eyes made out of wishes finally open to behold they have come true– and as I take your hand, it’s held aloft with the grace of those who are born to it, and were it ever lost it was just for a moment; not an hour or a lifetime we escaped by suffering in solitude until we learned to break. For I am not assembled from the pieces of a corpse brought back to life but the promises inherent in a seed stripped from the earth returned in cold and cupping hands I took out from the snow to shaking and in faith demand that more than heat, the sunshine let me grow. Pain is found in our escaping this, the shell that did protect us; and I now sullied, faceless am transformed into the blooming weep of branches; they become me as I light the sky with a hundred tender glances– anoint in me the child of rain; delight in my caresses.